


Make the Sun Jealous (Or Stay In Bed)

by dragonofdispair



Series: Morning [8]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: (::sigh:: I ask that a lot don’t I?), (Prowl is such a size queen), (Why does Smokescreen have a--Oh! NVM!), (is that a thing?), (mentions of whipping), Alternate Universe, BDSM, Bondage, Consensual Infidelity, Cuddling, Hand Feeding, Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Master/Pet, Narcissism Kink, Object Insertion, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Pre-War, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome, blindfold, collar and leash, large object insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22124323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Ricochet finds someone compatible with Prowl. (Your kink is not my kink… except when it is.)
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl, Prowl/Smokescreen
Series: Morning [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553491
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77





	Make the Sun Jealous (Or Stay In Bed)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by Rizobact

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

MAKE THE SUN JEALOUS… 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

.

.

.

The transport popped open his doors and Prowl nervously stepped out to see where he’d been taken. Jazz was up near the mech’s cab, chatting while he counted out the last of his shanix to pay for the ride. Prowl wanted to demand to know where they were.

Pets don’t speak unless spoken to. The transport hadn’t gotten a good look at tags on Prowl’s locked necklace, but he’d been nervous the whole ride that this utter stranger would ask him about them. And since he was wearing them, the rules applied. Prowl needed to stay silent. 

He was walking though, which was against the rules and Prowl had the dual impulse to get down on all fours and brace himself for punishment. He wasn’t even wearing the shock collar right now. Jazz had given him permission to walk until they got where they were going.

This couldn’t be the final destination though, right? Cool and dark, this was the underground loading area for the building above them. Prowl didn’t know if they were going up or if Jazz had another nearby building in mind. 

_Property of Jazz_ and _His name is Pet. Feel free to fuck him, but be careful: he bites (—‿❛ )✧ ~Jazz._ Prowl would have balked at wearing them outside the apartment if Jazz hadn’t taken the time to layer a temporary coat of paint on top of his police paint. He looked down at himself. He still had his lightbar and other frame alterations, but he did not look like Prowl the Enforcer. His hood was red. So was his roof, he knew. His bumper, though, had been painted in a brightly contrasting blue, which continued up onto his shoulders, arms, and doors. Jazz had even chosen to paint his chevron a medium shade of yellow that Prowl might not have objected too badly to, _if_ the rest of him weren’t so garishly colored already.

His protest over the color of his chevron had earned him a whipping, like a recalcitrant slave. Prowl shivered. The pain had triggered arousal, but he didn’t especially like the feeling of being whipped. If that was going to be Jazz’s punishment of choice this cycle — and the fact that he’d subspaced the whip, and not the shock collar, on their way out of their apartment indicated it was — then Prowl needed to behave. Something that would be easier if he knew where they were going or when the no-standing rule went back into effect.

It’d help if he knew what this was all about. Lacking that, he just stood where he’d exited the mech’s cargo pod, doors carefully lowered, and waited for Jazz’s instructions.

Jazz slapped the transport’s hood affably, then waved as the mech pulled out of the underground dock. 

_Jazz?_ the question was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Pets did not speak unless spoken to. The words turned to a soft whine of confusion. 

“No more cameras, no more witnesses,” Jazz murmured drawing some of the toys he’d brought with him from his subspace. “Time to finish getting you ready.” They were still technically in public, but the memory of the whip against his plating made him give in with a tremble. Prowl bowed his head and started to go to his knees. “Stay standing,” Jazz stopped him. “We still have some walking to do, but we can’t go up there until you’re prepared.” 

So they were just going somewhere in this building. 

Prowl almost called red. This building had to have an entrance at the street level, and he didn’t want to be seen like… like any of this. Not trussed up like a pet and not in this ridiculous paint. 

Jazz must have seen the hesitation. His gaze softened a little. “No cameras, no witnesses. I promise.”

Prowl still almost balked, but then he nodded and allowed Jazz to put the second collar around his neck. It latched closed with a soft metallic snap. Prowl knew he’d be wearing it a while because this was the one he slept in after a long or especially intense scene. It was soft and simple; the only “decoration” was the loop in the front where Jazz quickly hooked the leash. 

He thought that would be it. He felt… well, he was sure he couldn’t be prepared for whatever was happening, but he was now fully dressed up as a pet. Instead, Jazz went on to bind his hands together, then blindfold him, both with sparkly red strips of cloth which Prowl had never seen before. 

“Follow,” Jazz commanded from the sudden darkness. This they had done before, though not often. It took concentration to trail along behind Jazz with nothing but the sound of his footsteps and the tug of the leash on his collar to guide him. Which was a good thing. Prowl could hear his own systems slowly overheating from the stress of being paraded around like this in public. He couldn’t hear anyone nearby, felt confident that he _would_ hear if anyone approached, but if someone drove into the docking area or if—

_Ding!_

No one stepped out of the elevator. Jazz guided him in. He heard a button being pressed, the door closing behind him. 

Prowl tried not to think about how likely it was that someone else would step onto the elevator on their way up to… wherever. 

He nearly jumped out of his plating when the door dinged and then opened.

“Follow,” Jazz commanded again, and Prowl realized belatedly that this was their stop, not someone getting on to continue up.

Jazz’s footsteps were heavily muffled as they stepped out into the hall, and when Prowl stepped onto the thick carpeting he realized why. Prowl’s systems strained to hear any sign of others in the hushed hall. 

“Here.” Jazz paused next to… something. Presumably a door. A guess that was confirmed a klik later when he heard Jazz enter a code onto the keypad and the door opened. 

“No one home,” Jazz commented before Prowl’s systems could combust with stress. No one home. They were alone. The door closed behind them.

Prowl tried to discern what he could about this new space. The carpet continued here, muffling echoes he might have been able to use to determine the room’s size. He thought it was… largish, though. The air currents didn’t feel… compressed and stale like they would in a truly small room. The air didn’t smell dirty, but it lacked the sterile scent of a hotel. Someone lived here. 

“One step down,” Jazz said and automatically Prowl stepped down. From there he was led only a few more paces. “Kneel here.” Gratefully, Prowl sank down onto the waiting pillow, only slightly awkward for his hands being bound together. The urge to brace himself for punishment for standing and walking around like a person faded. He heard Jazz flop down on the couch in front of him. “You no longer have permission to stand.”

“Yes, master,” Prowl murmured in acknowledgment, grateful to know he’d done well. 

“Lean forward. Rest on me.” Prowl followed the tug of the leash and rested against Jazz’s legs. Jazz petted over his helm and Prowl let himself whine, expressing and letting out all the stress that had built up during the elevator ride up. “Awww…” Jazz’s frame shifted and Prowl felt his lips brush against the top of his helm. “You were a good pet. So beautiful and trusting.”

Prowl mewed. He hadn’t liked being taken someplace. Hadn’t liked being in public where there was a risk of being seen with his tags. He still wasn’t sure he liked waiting here, waiting for a stranger to get home. 

The _least_ disconcerting possibility was that this was Ricochet’s apartment.

And it wasn’t that he was getting cold feet about their agreements, or minded when Jazz did new things. But the waiting, the ability to contemplate what was happening, had left him more anxious than the mixture of humiliation and pleasure he enjoyed. Anxiety that made it hard to relax, even now that he was “safe” and cuddled up against Jazz’s legs being petting and praised. Of course, Jazz noticed.

 _Yellow,_ Prowl responded to the generalized query ping. Nothing bad was happening right now, but he was having a hard time letting go of his not-fun nervousness. 

“I’ve been planning this for a few weeks,” Jazz said casually, petting his fingers over Prowl’s head reassuringly, “while you and Drift got to know each other. This is a reward for doing so well with him, pet. I walked the building and made sure there’d be no cameras. There’s surveillance on the street entrances, and on the entrance to the loading area, but nothing on the elevator itself.” Despite himself, knowing that Jazz had been here before eased a knot of tension and Prowl’s doors relaxed. 

“Ricochet suggested a friend of his,” Jazz went on, making those doors pop back up in surprise and the first note of offense. Another criminal! Jazz laughed softly. He had to know what Prowl was thinking, but he didn’t confirm or deny it. “He said your and his kinks should be a good match. I have to agree.” Jazz’s fingers petted along one door. “So relax. This is a reward.”

A reward didn’t mean he wouldn’t be whipped for misbehaving if he disrupted Jazz’s plans deliberately, but it did mean that Prowl shouldn’t be afraid of what was happening. 

Jazz hadn’t asked for to be praised for his generosity, but Prowl murmured, “You’re a kind master,” anyway. The words, the assurance to them both that he wanted to be rewarded and not punished, soothed some of Prowl’s tension and he was finally able to partially relax under Jazz’s petting. 

“I am,” Jazz said, with another kiss to the top of his pet’s helm. He pinged for the safeword and this time Prowl was able to give him a full okay to continue.

He was still nervous though. Prowl risked punishment to ask, “Could you tell me about him?” Hopefully, after the _kind master_ ritual Jazz wouldn’t be inclined to—

Prowl felt warning claws against his paint and he shivered. He had broken the rule. 

Despite the threat, though, Jazz chose not to punish him. “He’s going to have fun with you,” he said instead. The claws retreated and he stroked Prowl’s head soothingly. “He’s not to punish you though. If you upset him, I’ll be doing that.” Jazz didn’t elaborate as to why.

Though it wasn’t what he’d asked, Prowl was reassured by it. He would not be whipped by a stranger. “He’s Ricochet’s friend.”

“Yes.”

Prowl waited for elaboration, but it didn’t come. “Jazz… Master, please—“

“Hush, pet.” Prowl stopped talking with a whine. Jazz’s patience with disobeying the rules was obviously through. “A toy doesn’t need to know anything further.”

“Yes, master.” Prowl forced his questions out of his vocal queue. A toy. He was going to be used for someone’s pleasure, and Jazz expected this to be a reward. 

Shame coiled in his tank, and his dry valve moistened. He _did_ enjoy being used.

Jazz pressed lightly on his head, guiding him back to leaning against his leg to resume petting. 

Even now that his active worries had been soothed, Prowl’s processor couldn’t turn off. He would usually occupy himself with a book, a game, or some other small, non-work entertainment (Jazz forbade work at home, most of the time), but his bound hands and blindfold would have prevented that even had pet been allowed. But Prowl was not used to being left idle as Pet either. _Thinking_ was not what he did in that situation! Right now, he didn’t even have a toy in his valve to concentrate on.

It wasn’t fair. _Jazz_ had a datapad to read! Prowl could hear the near-silent taps of his fingers against the touch screen. The interval of taps was too short and too regular to be most games. A novel, or maybe a new musical score. 

With nothing else to occupy himself, Prowl tried to catalog the space. The carpet had been rich and soft. He didn’t know if the pillow he was kneeling on was one of the mysterious new mech’s things, or if Jazz had lent it to him from their stash, so he dismissed the velvety soft texture as interesting to run his fingers over but potentially irrelevant.

The couch, where his plating rested against it, was more interesting. It had a musty, old scent that told Prowl it was a cared-for antique, but it didn’t feel like one of the stiff cushions or the exposed metal that truly old things tended to have. Instead, it was plush and overstuffed. Someone liked comfortable things. The texture of the cloth was both stiff and soft, with fibers running in every direction like velveteen. Prowl had seen such furniture in films and shows set in the early Golden Age, aka the Age of Gangsters. Increased wealth combined with shortsighted regulations on both gambling and highgrade had created a booming caste of organized crime that still existed, though now mostly under control. It was often mined as a setting for stories about gamblers, bootleggers, corruption, private detectives, investigative journalism and dramatic out-caste romantic tragedies. Prowl could almost picture the couch from one of those movies, dark purple or red velveteen upholstery glimmering in the low light.

Somewhere in the room, Prowl could hear the buzzing of several neon lights. That would fit the Early Golden Age aesthetic, and inject further drama into the lighting and colors, whatever they were. A felt-topped gaming table, perhaps laid out with cards — real ones, not holographic replicas — would fit in perfectly, but that was not something he could either touch or hear to confirm the existence of.

Their host was a stim-smoker. Wafting through the air and sunk into the couch was the sweet scent of burning glycerin, laced with the mild drug and other flavorings, which told Prowl his host liked e-cigs rather than cygars. Depending on how large the apartment was, a single smoker could fill it with a haze of water vapor and burned particulates. That would fit the image of a mech who was recreating the visual drama of those movies about gamblers and gangsters, rather than someone trying to live out the actual historical period. Prowl could easily picture Ricochet here, playing cards with… someone.

Beyond that, Prowl struggled. The blindfold greatly hindered his ability to get information from the apartment. This mech liked having company over. Prowl could smell the lingering scents of mixed polishes and waxes in the air, but he could not identify which one belonged to the occupant. Nor could he tell what those mechs had done while here. Games, sophisticated cocktails, and interfacing would make sense, given the aesthetic, but gambling and highgrade did not leave lingering scents at all. And if sex was one of this mech’s hobbies, he cleaned up afterward and did not let the scent linger.

He didn’t notice how his preoccupation with trying to get to know the mech through his apartment, combined with Jazz’s petting, finished utterly relaxing him until the door beeped and unlocked, and a much more arousing mix of eagerness and anticipatory shame flooded his systems. He barely heard the mech’s footsteps on the carpet as Jazz stood to greet their host. 

“We let ourselves in,” Jazz said as the stranger stepped down the single step to come over near the couch. “I hope that was okay.”

“Sure.” The pleasant tenor had a distinctly Iaconi accent, making it sound exaggerated and melodious to Prowl. _suu-UR~♪_ It was also utterly unfamiliar. This wasn’t one of Jazz’s friends who Prowl already knew. Ricochet’s friend. Probably a criminal. The steps paused, and Prowl got the impression he was being examined. He trembled as the voice laughed. “So was the repaint your idea or Ricochet’s?” 

“Ricochet’s.” Jazz’s intonation was also exaggerated but it was familiar, and he added a husky, seductive note to the words by habit. He didn’t mean to sound like he was trying to seduce everyone around him, but there had been a time when he was and the uniquely Jazz-like accent was a holdover. 

“Hmm…” The stranger came closer, and Prowl shivered again. He knew what he looked like. A pet. A toy. Bound and blindfolded to await this stranger’s pleasure. He shouldn’t want this! Turning away, he hid his face against Jazz’s leg. It didn’t stop the mech from gently picking up his door to examine. Despite his mix of want/do not want, Prowl let him. Jazz was watching and would whip him if he pulled away. “I really should tell Ricochet I’m not _that_ much of a narcissist.” 

“Why?” Jazz asked curiously, petting Prowl’s head. “Would he believe you?”

“Probably not. May I?”

“Of course. That’s what we’re here for.” Prowl felt the tug of his leash changing hands and he whined in stress and despair. “Don’t worry about that,” Jazz said. “He’s very well trained. If he balks I am fully prepared to punish him.” 

“I never doubted you.” Prowl reluctantly followed the leash as the stranger led him a few steps off the pillow. Fingers caught his chin and he was forced to look up as he examined him, directing him this way and that. “If this is how Ricochet pays his debts I’ll have to play with him more often.”

Prowl’s entire frame heated. He was payment? For a debt incurred during a game? For one of _Ricochet’s_ debts!?!?

“As long as you hold up your end.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll show you how it’s done.” The mech laughed and kissed the center of Prowl’s chevron. “I should probably frag him first,” he murmured thoughtfully, right against Prowl’s audio. “Right now while his valve is nice and tight.”

“Do whatever you want,” Jazz said breezily. “As long as I get to watch.”

“Oh definitely. Go grab one of those,” one of the mech’s hands briefly left Prowl’s plating, presumably so he could gesture, “chairs and I’ll get gorgeous here set up in my berth.”

The mech stepped away and Prowl felt the leash tug again. Reluctantly he followed as Jazz moved in the opposite direction to get a chair. It was like a delicious nightmare coming true. 

Their host didn’t bother warning Prowl about the step and if he hadn’t been crawling he would have tripped over it. 

He heard a curtain be drawn, then did bump into the second step up and had to scramble onto the… raised room? Platform?

“Up,” the mech ordered, and Prowl was able to climb up onto the bed with a small modicum of grace since his doorwings weren’t bound. “That is a pretty picture,” he commented and Prowl blushed again. “I think I know what’s with your brother’s sudden attraction to watching me crawl around.” He snickered.

“I couldn’t say,” Jazz responded. Prowl couldn’t hear the slide of the chair across the carpet. He was suddenly too hyperfocused on the stranger’s proximity. A prominent bumper pressed down on Prowl’s back, compressing his doors and squishing him into the lightly scented sheets. Prowl shivered. “My brother is a giant— What _is_ this? A bedroom or a porno stage!?”

The mech snickered right in Prowl’s audio. “There’s a difference? There’s a remote over there,” his weight shifted as he gestured, “if you want a different view.” 

What did that— Prowl yelped as the bed vibrated to life and began to rotate. 

“Nice!”

“Come on, beautiful,” the mech whispered, spreading Prowl’s legs. “Ignore him and open up for me.”

Prowl mewed but sent out a _Yellow_ ping to Jazz. This wasn’t quite like with Ricochet, where Prowl had spent a joor or more winding himself up before the mech he’d despised walked in. Right now, his valve was only slightly wet and was feeling the arousing sort of conflicted but he wasn’t _ready_... 

“Slow down,” Jazz said, rotating the bed and when he spoke again, he was in front of Prowl so he looked up blindly in his master’s direction. He let out a begging whine. “I promised him a reward, and you promised me a good show, Smokescreen.”

Prowl let out a sob of relief. He knew his new dom’s name! Smokescreen. 

“Oh I can be very rewarding and I’ll put on a _very_ good show, as soon as he _opens up.”_ From Jazz or Ricochet, Prowl might have expected a reprimand, a snarl. Smokescreen sounded amused. 

“Pet?”

It wasn’t quite a promise that Smokescreen — _Iknowhisname!_ — wouldn’t shove his spike into Prowl’s valve dry, but the reminder that this was a reward for him, as well as whatever else it was, soothed him a bit. _Yellow_ he responded, but opened his panel and spread his legs to allow _Smokescreen_ to settle between them. His weight left Prowl’s back, and Prowl could picture him kneeling so he could examine the newly exposed valve.

“Oooh, that is gorgeous.” The first touch wasn’t from a spike, but the mech’s fingers sliding into him. Prowl gasped. The bed rotated again, and he lost track of where Jazz was. “I’m going to have so much fun with this…” Two fingers thrust in again, rubbing and exploring. 

For the first time, Prowl really started feeling _good._ He’d still been handed over to a stranger — _hisnameisSmokescreen!_ — to pay off one of _Ricochet’s_ debts, but Smokescreen was being gentle and enthusiastic in his explorations. 

_SMACK!_

The sudden impact of a palm against his aft made him yelp. Smokescreen laughed uproariously. “This is a really good view. A perfect set of doors over a perfect aft.” He slapped Prowl’s aft again, then rubbed his hand over the sensitized plating gently, drawing a moan from Prowl’s lips. 

“And you expect me to tell Rico you’re _not_ a narcissist?” Jazz chuckled. He was behind Prowl now and he could hear the hoarse note in his master’s voice that meant he’d been fingering his own valve while he watched Prowl’s being stroked and stimulated. 

“Well… maybe,” Smokescreen conceded with a laugh. He touched Prowl’s doors lightly, rubbing them until he moaned, then slapped one lightly to make Prowl gasp. “I _am_ enjoying myself.”

The fingers returned to his valve and Prowl felt three of them sink into him easily. “Almost. What do you want me to do about—” 

“Just bareback him.” Prowl could practically see the nasty grin. “We’ll deal with the consequences.”

“Oh, fantastic.”

Of course, Prowl thought a little fuzzily, his implant would prevent actual conception, but maybe Jazz had finally bought that ovipositor…

An unfamiliar but perfectly normally shaped spike slid a little roughly into his now very wet valve. No toy ovipositor, but Prowl didn’t have the presence of mind to be disappointed. Smokescreen was not as rough a lover as Ricochet was, but he didn’t really give Prowl time to adjust to the sudden invasion. He pulled out, then thrust back in just as fast. 

Hands grabbed at his doors and held him down. “I’m going to have to do something about your squirming,” Smokescreen grunted, digging his fingers into the sensitive joints for leverage. 

Prowl felt the dizzying sensation of the bed rotating again.

It was a slow, almost painless climb through arousal for Prowl. Smokescreen’s words weren’t filthy and degrading, but they were mostly to Jazz not to Prowl. He only said anything directly to Prowl to scold him for squirming too much or compliment him on the quality of his moaning. More often, though, he complimented Jazz for _training_ him to moan properly. It really was like Prowl was a doll or an object he was using to sate his desires, and it made Prowl’s frame heat up and his valve clench needily. He was a toy… 

“Kyygaah!” Smokescreen overloaded, thrusting his spike deep into Prowl to release his load of transfluid. He thrust a few more times, then pulled out, making Prowl whine. He was so close— “Hush, pet. I’m not done with you.”

“I hope not!” Jazz called out. _”I_ haven’t gotten off yet!”

“Well then…” Smokescreen snickered, levering his weight off of Prowl. “Why don’t you frag him a little while I finish getting the rest of my equipment out of the dishwasher.”

Jazz burst out laughing. 

“I kind of expected to have a few kliks,” Smokescreen defended as his weight on Prowl’s back was replaced by Jazz’s. “But it works out well this way. His valve is still way too tight for what I have in mind. Go ahead and loosen him up.”

Prowl arched into his master’s hold with a cry as a very familiar spike thrust into him. Jazz’s rhythm was rough and reassuring. Jazz took his pleasure without saying anything to Prowl, but he didn’t need to. Prowl was so very close…

“Wow… If I’m that pretty when I’m the one being fragged, I’m going to have to install a mirror on the ceiling.” 

Jazz laughed as Prowl overloaded, self-consciousness and shame pushing him over that final edge. Jazz rode out Prowl’s thrashing and sparks, then continued thrusting into his lax frame until he’d found his own release. 

“Towel,” Smokescreen called as Jazz slid off the weird, rotating berth. It didn’t hit Prowl so he muzzily concluded that Jazz had been the one to catch it. The bed dipped. “Now…” Three, then four fingers slid into Prowl’s valve and squelched through the accumulated lubricant and transfluid as they tested the mesh and calipers for how well they stretched. “Good enough.” 

“So what is all this stuff?”

“You’ll see~🎶” Prowl moaned lightly as the hand left his valve. “Let’s get you positioned for a proper show, pet…” Hands, unfamiliar ones, lifted Prowl’s hips. Jazz usually tied him supine, but he was familiar with the prone positions. He wiggled to help lift his hips and braced with his elbows. The position really did “show off” his valve. Jazz whistled and Prowl’s tired frame heated. 

He was a good pet though, and he held the position even though his shoulders and legs trembled with the strain of holding himself up. Post overload, he felt like a cooked energon noodle. 

Fortunately, he didn’t need to hold himself up for long. Smokescreen picked him up and slid a triangular pillow that fit perfectly against his abdomen and bumper under him, allowing Prowl to rest. Being bound was familiar. It felt good and even right. Now that he no longer needed them to hold himself up, Prowl’s hands, which were still bound together, were clipped to a loop on the pillow, placing them beneath him so he couldn’t brace. Snickering, Smokescreen finished putting Prowl completely off-balance by cuffing his knees to a spreader bar and using it to force his legs apart until he was held up entirely by the support beneath him.

The movement of the bed was even more dizzying now. Prowl’s processor spun, utterly discombobulated. He’d already lost track of what direction he was facing but now… Prowl wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand. The room was spinning, and he couldn’t tell if it was the bed or his gyroscope that was making him so disoriented. 

Smokescreen stroked one doorwing and laughed when it twitched. “He’s very well trained.”

Prowl didn’t feel well trained. He felt limp and helpless. 

“He is being a very good pet for you,” Jazz remarked, and Prowl could almost imagine him toying with the whip. He pinged Prowl for a safeword and Prowl responded with _Green._ He actually felt better having been tied up. The fact that he was in a strange place being played with by a strange person was less important. Far away. “He’s much feistier when we’re using the shock collar.”

“I’ll have to see that one day.” Smokescreen pushed his four fingers into Prowl’s valve, twisting and pushing at the calipers. “Get comfortable, pet. We’re going to be here a while.” 

He’d been spoken directly to, so Prowl could have answered, asked what he had planned… But Smokescreen partially withdrew his hand, then pushed in all five of his fingers all the way up to the knuckles. It wasn’t painful, but it was much larger than any spike in their size class, and Prowl’s questions were lost in his low moan. 

Smokescreen pulled out slowly, then thrust in again with his hand. With each thrust, he slowly pushed his knuckles deeper and deeper into Prowl, widening his valve until they sank past the outermost layer of calipers. From there, his hand sank easily the rest of the way in. The thicker armor around his forearm caught on the entrance and rubbed against the folds.

Prowl moaned again. There was a hand, a _whole_ hand in his valve. 

Jazz scoffed. “Hardly an accomplishment with him.”

“I am just getting started…” 

Prowl barely heard them. Smokescreen continued to move and thrust his hand, pushing it in and out until it glided easily.

“Needs more lube…” Smokescreen muttered before squirting a healthy globule right into Prowl’s valve. The shock of cold made him squeal, but he relaxed again when something even bigger than a hand was pushed into him.

This felt like a false spike. It wasn’t his familiar one from home, but it was just as big. Prowl panted as it thrust into him inch by inch. Oh yes… _yesss_. It felt so very good to be stretched open. It wasn’t painful; Smokescreen was going slow enough that he adjusted without pain, but it was a stretched full feeling that _could_ be painful…. Prowl rocked against the pillow, trying to take the textured dildo faster, to spark a little bit of pain, but he’d been tied down such that he had no leverage and he was completely at Smokescreen’s mercy. No pain… Why/how was there no pain… Smokescreen was going too slow!

He withdrew it completely, added more lube, then pushed it back in, this time seating it fully inside him. What did it look like, Prowl wondered dizzily as the bed rotated again, showing him off from all angles. It felt amazing. 

Jazz and Smokescreen were still talking. To each other and not to him, so Prowl let his focus narrow to the massive spike inside him, moaning and writhing and finally overloading when Smokescreen started rocking it gently.

He howled in protest when at the peak of his overload, it was taken from him.

He collapsed in his bonds, whining at the terrible emptiness.

“Poor thing,” Smokescreen murmured. “Don’t worry. We have plenty more.” And before Prowl could respond to that, something even larger was pushed into his valve. 

Moaning in satisfaction and pleasure, he was stretched wider and wider. Prowl tried to identify this new toy. It had very smooth sides, made even smoother by the addition of even more of the lubricant Smokescreen was using. The shape was odd, not like a false spike at all… A bottle, he guessed when it suddenly narrowed once it was fully inside him.

The next thing wasn’t something Prowl could guess at all. It was just huge and smooth… Just… so big. Prowl moaned quietly, making tiny gasp-like sounds in time with Smokescreen’s thrusts and manipulations. 

It hurt now, but not like any other sort of pain. It was the pain of being stretched open, of his frame being coaxed to take larger and larger objects… 

He’d stopped writhing. Stopped moving and humping and begging. He was stuffed too full for any of that. There was no room in Prowl for anything else but the… whatever it was. 

“And now,” Smokescreen announced from the end of a very long tunnel. Prowl could barely hear him past the pleasure-pain in his frame. “The piece de resistance: a bowling ball…”

If Jazz had any reply to that, Prowl couldn’t hear him. 

The sphere was a strange, hard shape for his body to accommodate. Everything else had been some variation of semi-spike shaped, just wider and wider… The ball had no gradual build-up to its maximum width; it was placed against the plush folds around his valve and pushed against him like a wall. 

Prowl didn’t know how long it took. He’d long ago lost track of time. His world became the slow pattern of push-retreat, more lube, then _push_ -retreat as Sm… someone slowly coaxed the massive thing into him. It was a steady build of pleasure and pain that wasn’t really arousing, but instead utterly relaxing. 

He only noticed it had been pushed fully in when it was let go and the full weight of the object now inside his valve fell against his sensors. 

Prowl screamed. He may or may not have overloaded again.

“Look at that… Let’s… “ Prowl’s legs and then hands were unbound and he was allowed to tip sideways off the pillow holding him up. He rolled over back onto his stomach, letting the massive weight in his valve rest on his abdominal armor and the bed instead of trying to hold it up. 

He laid with his legs splayed out, exposing whatever was still visible of the object to whoever was watching. The sheer size of it meant he couldn’t close his legs even if he wanted, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about the other person — people? — nearby. 

Someone was stroking his back, between his doors. Obediently, Prowl loosened up his armor and laid still to enjoy it. He could hear voices, but they didn’t matter… 

“...ve an automatic toy, one that uses air to adjust the size depending on caliper pressure, but it’s not as much fun as the hands-on approach… 

“... recovery…”

“...eah. Until then… fun to play with…” 

“... igger?”

“Little… next time…”

Another pair of hands rested on his aft, toyed with the thing inside him. His even breaths hitched when it rotated, but Prowl did not have anything in him to protest or squirm.

His head was lifted and mouth coaxed open. Prowl let it happen calmly. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered except the exquisite stretch in his valve… A spike slid into his mouth and down his throat. His gag reflex tried to cough it back up, but it didn’t move and Prowl felt unconcerned by its presence so he relaxed. He didn’t quite know what was happening, but nothing bad could happen to him right now… 

The spike started thrusting in and out of his lax mouth and throat. He drooled, but the fingers stroking the painfully stretched opening of his valve occupied so much more of his attention. 

“…still Primus damned gorgeous on my spike…”

Eventually, the spike in his mouth jerked. Electricity bit his soft oral surfaces and fluid spurted down his throat. Overload, he thought fuzzily, swallowing on reflex. He remembered overloads. He could — his body clenched around the huge thing in him, a wave of pleasure washed through him, then he relaxed with a sigh. 

His doors were being stroked. Prowl started rumbling his engine affectionately. He didn’t have much more attention left to spare for the stroking, but he liked it. 

Liked…

…He was so _full_...

“Okay. Time to…” The sphere was pulled, came partially out of him and Prowl squealed in protest. 

He couldn’t fight, he didn’t have the strength, but he tried, clenching his valve around the object in an effort to keep it in him. It was a useless effort; his calipers had no strength in them. 

The shock of emptiness hit him like a physical thing. It was _gone._

_Everything_ was gone! That massive thing had been the only thing that was real and now it was gone!

…Until another thing was pushed into him. This was as big but slightly squishy. Prowl settled, letting himself float again. 

He was laid out and enveloped in warmth. Soft warmth, like blankets and comfort…

“Sleep, pet,” a familiar voice commanded. There was something off with that. He shouldn’t sleep until… The thought shattered. He was just too comfortable. He was surrounded by warmth, enveloped by two comforting EM fields and he had a really big… squishy thing of some sort in his valve. Everything was comfortable. Nothing to protest at all. 

Prowl slept.

.

.

.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇ 

…OR STAY IN BED

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇ 

.

.

.

Everything ached. Prowl shifted sleepily. He felt… good. The memories were colored with pleasure, and everything in his core just… ached. He still had a…

He reached down between his legs and pulled out a thin… he wasn’t sure what it was. His valve protested the loss, but only for the shortest of kliks. It was about the size of just one of his fingers, too thin to stretch him as he remembered being stretched, and vaguely spike-shaped.

“It’s a specialized extreme stretch toy,” one of the mechs cuddling him said and Prowl looked from the strange toy to the mech in front of him. Blue optics glowed under a bright yellow chevron. Where had he seen a yellow chevron before… “It automatically adjusts to the valve, stretching or coaxing it closed depending on the setting. I prefer a more hands-on approach for opening you up, but this way we didn’t have to change it out for new ones every few minutes while you recovered and you could just sleep through it.” 

That was… Prowl didn’t know what it was. He blinked a little stupidly at the mech in his bed. 

Or… as the sheets and the scents weren’t at all familiar… was he in this mech’s bed? 

He checked behind him, making sure Jazz was with him. He was, spooning him protectively as usual. 

“Yeah…” The red and blue and yellow mech muttered. “Ricochet warned me you wouldn’t be responsive at first. Okay. Take the time you need to get your bearings. You’re welcome to whatever energon’s in the cooling unit. I’ll wait here until you’re ready, but you and I, we both need a shower and I insist we take it together.”

Prowl — pet — nodded. The mention of Ricochet, though, reminded him that he was allowed to cuddle before getting out of bed. That was okay too. He was _supposed_ to cuddle with new lovers. 

The mech — Smokescreen? — sighed and pushed himself to a sitting position. There was no headboard, but there was a solid wall of chair-like cushions for him to lean on. A small box appeared in his hand from his subspace, and Prowl watched him put together the components of, then light with the push of a button, an e-cig. Smokescreen took a draught of it, and sweetly flavored glycerine smoke wafted out over all three of them. 

It wasn’t unpleasant, and it reminded Prowl that yes, they were at Smokescreen’s apartment, with the overstuffed couch, the neon lighting, the rotating bed, and the scent of smoke permeating everything. 

He was supposed to cuddle his new lovers. He wasn’t going to be abandoned by them. Prowl pushed the covers down, out of the way a bit, catching sight of himself in the process. Oh. That was why the red, blue, and yellow looked so familiar. He stared at his hand, forgetting what he’d started to do.

“I’m not _that_ much of a narcissist,” Smokescreen said, chuckling between drags of the e-cig. “It was kind of interesting though. I definitely need a mirror on the ceiling now.” 

Prowl blinked at him, dimly registered that they had very similar frames. Painted up nearly the same — Prowl didn’t have the racer markings on his doors or anything but the broad strokes of Smokescreen’s colors — they could easily be mistaken for one another. Except Prowl was still wearing his collar and Smokescreen, of course, was not.

Maybe anyone who had seen Prowl being led through the hall by that collar would think he was Smokescreen? That was… too complicated for Prowl right now. He fingered his tags and then the collar he’d slept in, touching the loop where the leash had been attached.

The collar… was Prowl ready to start being… not-Pet? It wasn’t an instant process, of course, but… but did he… no. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to be independent. He didn’t want to get up. He still felt disconnected, floaty. And his frame hurt. He didn’t want to brave the cold.

Pets don’t speak unless spoken to. Pets don’t walk. Pets don’t use their spikes. Pets existed for their masters’ pleasure, but pets were also cared for… 

He scooched up to Smokescreen and made an interrogative sound.

“Whatever that was asking for, the answer is yes,” the mech answered. He took another drag of the e-cig and then let it out, clouding the air with smoke. 

Happy to have permission, Prowl wrapped his arms around his… new master’s waist and laid his head down on his lap. Cling. 

“Well, that’s just the most adorable thing.” 

He was adorable! His doors wiggled. 

Jazz could get them breakfast. 

Prowl sighed in contentment when New Master petted over his head, down his back, then across his doors before returning to his head. Another hand, Jazz’s, wrapped securely around his waist and touched the mesh around his exposed valve. That was okay. His whole frame hurt, but pets were meant to be used…

Prowl woke up, still mostly draped on Smokescreen’s lap. 

Now Jazz was sitting up. Prowl could feel his hand possessively resting on his door. 

He noticed Prowl was awake. “How are you doing, pet?”

A direct question. “Good,” he answered. Everything still hurt but he was still so very warm and floaty… He’d been used and shared and rewarded. He was in a good headspace to be pampered. How could he feel anything but good?

“Not complaining,” Smokescreen said, stroking Prowl affectionately. Prowl heard him take another drag of the e-cig, sneezed when the smoke was blown over him. “But this isn’t what I expected from Ricochet’s description.”

“It just means he’s not ready,” Jazz answered. Prowl looked around the room, blinking as he took in what he’d only smelled/heard/touched before. Just as he’d guessed, it was a dramatic mix of dark colors — shades of green, where Prowl had thought red or purple — and bright neon lights. The bedroom wasn’t truly closed off from the rest of the apartment, so Prowl could see the couch, the guessed-at gaming table, shelves, and the haze of smoke flickering in the soft neon. Pretty. “The emotional outbursts don’t start until he’s ready to start trying out control again. He’ll take off one of the collars when he’s feeling strong enough.” 

Hmm… Yes. That was how it worked. Maybe in a joor or too. After breakfast. For now… cling. _Aren’tIacutepet?_

“I brought us breakfast, pet,” Jazz said, turning his words back to Prowl and Prowl gave him his attention. “Smokescreen doesn’t keep kibble, but I made sure you got something sweet. Aren’t I a kind master?”

“Yes…” Prowl moaned softly, then pried himself up off their plating to take a proper position for being fed. Did he want to be rewarded or punished right now? He was feeling too sleepy and needy for punishment. “You’re a kind master.” 

“So since he didn’t get up and take this off,” Smokescreen reached over to tug on the leash-loop. Prowl blinked slowly in confusion, and, once he figured out that the tug wasn’t an instruction and he wasn’t being spoken to, ignored the words to focus on Jazz and his proffered cube. “We get clingy-Prowl instead of an emotionally unstable one?”

“Oh we’ll get both,” Jazz answered, tipping a sip of fuel into Prowl’s mouth. “It just takes a joor or two longer.”

“Ah.” Smokescreen petted Prowl gently. Then he tweaked Prowl’s currently yellow chevron. “That mean I can frag him a few more times? He— _we_ look fantastic and it’s not every day I get a treat like this.”

Jazz laughed. “Wait a bit. No sex for half a joor after eating until aftercare starts. That’s the rule.”

Prowl swallowed the second proffered sip. Yes, that was the rule. He liked rules. 

.

.

.

End


End file.
